We didn’t even stay up to watch the ball drop in New York.
My husband Jeff was jet-lagged, I’m always tired. We didn’t hear a single
firecracker, no one called us at midnight. We did what we always do – wake up,
kiss each other good morning, say “Happy New Year”, then go check for
acceptances and rejections.
Now you know why, after taking a “crossing genres” class
with Mark Doty, I said “I learned that I will never write a memoir because I’m
so boring, not even I would read it!” I hope your evening, and upcoming year,
are everything you want it to be.
Did you make any resolutions? Real ones, not ones that were
broken before the night was over? I didn’t even think of making any until the
question was asked in my LinkedIn group – Poetry Editors and Poets. I could
barely think of three:
- Submit to one contest a
month. I never win anything. It’s my way of being a good literary citizen
by making small donations here and there. If the contest fee includes a
one year subscription to a journal I enjoy, it’s a win-win.
- Diligently continue this
blog for the whole year. I appreciate those of you who read this. You help
keep me focused on poetry. You remind me to write in a way that’s
understandable and current. This blog is for me as much as it is for you,
and I am very thankful to write it.
- Have you heard of the
“30/30”? During April, National Poetry Month, the idea is to write 30
poems in 30 days. My goal is to write ten good poems that I can submit and
that will be published. I don’t care about writing 30 crummy poems just to
say I did it. If you’ve ever done this before, or never tried it before,
start thinking about whether this is a challenge you want to try in 2019.
You have three months to get in the
habit of finding poetry in everything, from the beauty of a hawk flying in a
cloudless sky, to the person buying Spam, cat food, and asparagus in line
behind you at the store. Everything can become poetic; practice observing.
Practice eavesdropping. Practice writing. Get ready for April!
Those are the only resolutions I
made.
As you may know, January 13th Jeff and I are the
featured readers on behalf of the Cholla Needles Magazine poetry reading series
at Space Cowboy Books. There is also
an open mic. I am very much looking forward to meeting you and hearing
your poems! Those of you who read this
blog and who are local have an advantage over us: you’ve been to these, we
haven’t. Any comments or suggestions you can offer below will be gratefully
accepted.
We’ve seen pictures of the readings but don’t know the
audience. We don’t know if there will be kids there. We rarely have curse words
in our poems, just so you know. The reading will be G Rated.
Full disclosure – I used to only cry in Texas. Even though I
practice and practice, something will make me cry and my poems aren’t even
sad!!! My apologies in advance. Please bring Kleenex if you are easily
influenced.
“Slices of Alice &
Other Character Studies” was published by our very own Rich Soos and Cholla
Needles Press. Our other books were by different publishers.
“The Color of
Forgiveness” is the only collaborative book Jeff and I have ever made.
There are some poems by me, some by Jeff, many where our stanzas are woven together
to make new poems, and many of Jeff’s beautiful black and white photos. You
cannot tell who wrote what. The compilation was done by Michael Dwayne Smith, editor of
Mojave River Press and Review. A sample
poem is below.
See you on the 13th!!
How Jo Beth Came to Love
the Sabbath Crow
Sky
Clouds are the lecture hall of God.
High cirrus wisps are tears of women
walking the Widow’s Walk, waiting
for their men to come home from sea.
[ Immersed in the distance, her
serrated wings are stained gray
by the marine layer trundling in
off the morning ocean surf.]
Cumulus are the beefy bullies in
the football uniforms of the universe.
If they had sound, and sometimes they do,
they would be the drum line announcing their
arrival, daring anyone not to notice.
The broom of wind, sweeping dust off
the hearth of heaven, sometimes a promenade
of sociability and others a run for cover. And always
the birds, riding the highs and lows, gliders over invisible
peaks caused by air, the hidden sea, from below.
[ Like the rest of us, she breaks
the Sabbath,
dark semaphore of Hebrew
wilderness,
glutton of sea and earth, living
and dead,
aloft in the damp solitude of air
above
houses lining my street.]
Birds don’t take meteorology class, they just know.
[ She eyes my pale lawn
that grows anything but green.]
Gray or any shade turning toward dawn,
or blue, she would lie on the grass, red
velvet blanket wrapped around her for warmth.
She would climb
into the stories
of the sky.
From squirrels jumping
from roof to tree,
to a web shining
with droplets of dew,
to the helicopter heard
but not seen until long
past overhead,
destination unknown
and wide-eyed.
[ All day I’ve watched as she and
kin
glide toward dusk, fallen light
having faded their wings, as if
to take them back, blackness
melding
with black, like meteors that would
burn out
those times I’d lay on my back as a
child
watching summer night sky.
I had crawled out my bedroom window
to stare in peace, as now, I sit
on the curb, the ember of my last
smoke
burning holes in the dark.]
There’s a lot you can imagine.
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Tobi Alfier's most recent collection of poetry is Slices Of Alice. She is also co-editor with Jeff Alfier of the San Pedro River Review. Don't miss Tobi's columns on the craft of poetry: insert your email address in the "Follow By Email" box to the right of this article and you'll be notified every time a new article appears.
